


Without Words

by Savageseraph



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Community: contrelamontre, Desire, F/M, Hearing & Sounds, Insomnia, M/M, Masturbation, Music, Senses, Swimming, Voyeurism, Water Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-02-02
Updated: 2003-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-02 18:42:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageseraph/pseuds/Savageseraph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Ring sang to Boromir.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without Words

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/contrelamontre/profile)[**contrelamontre**](http://community.livejournal.com/contrelamontre/). An improv fic with the following guidelines: The third of a series of sensory challenges focusing on the sense of sound. The time limit is 45 minutes. With many thanks to [](http://caras-galadhon.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://caras-galadhon.livejournal.com/)**caras_galadhon** who never lets me cheat when it comes to the details.

The Ring sang to Boromir. In the Council, when the Halfling placed it on the stone pedestal, it burned with the brave sound of drums and trumpets. As his fingers reached for it, the music swelled, bright with the promise of victory, and the voices calling his name dwindled to whispers. Then the wizard darkened the sky, called thunder that rumbled along Boromir's bones and beat him--and the song of battles fought and won--back.

Yet even wizards have limits to their power. While Gandalf drowned the song of the Ring, he did not undo its music altogether. A thread of it remained, little more than a whisper. Sometimes it shook with the plaintive sound of a mourner's sobs. Sometimes it chimed with the laughter of an Elf maid. Boromir considered telling Gandalf about it, but the music never had words. Never commanded or compelled.

But that is the way of music: it has no words to argue or reason with. Its lure is baited for the heart, not the mind. That is why it is so powerful. That is why it is so dangerous.

In the months after the Council, while the Fellowship rested in Rivendell and waited for the Halfling to mend enough to begin his quest, Boromir grew familiar with Elrond's valley. It was a pretty place, but he missed the quiet strength of white stone and the graceful domes of Minas Tirith. The longer the party remained idle, the more he yearned to find his feet once more on the road to his city.

The song of the Ring grew more discordant, became an itch he could never be rid of, though he scratched the back of his neck bloody one night trying.

When sleep evaded Boromir, he stalked the paths of Rivendell, the Ring's whisper rasping like scales over dry rock. Boromir shook his head, trying to clear it of the grating sound. He tried to focus on something--anything--else: the leaves crunching beneath his boots, the roaring of the falls as water tumbled from the summit, striking rocks and splashing into the pool below.

Boromir stopped as he heard splashing that did not come from falling water. Aragorn stood on a rock, his body naked and aroused. Boromir shifted as his own breeches grew tight. Laughter bubbled up from the pool beneath Aragorn, and he answered it with his own before diving into the water.

Aragorn surfaced, wrapped his arms around Arwen. More laughter, this time quickly muffled by kissing. Boromir unlaced his breeches; his hand closed around his erection as Aragorn's hands slid down Arwen's back to her hips. Aragorn lifted her in the water, pulled her closer to his body, lowered her slowly down. Her back arched and she cried out, fingers digging into his hair, her forehead pressed against his.

Aragorn's head fell back, resting against the rock behind him, and he groaned at some shift of Arwen's hips, some tightening of her muscles. Waves rippled out from them as Arwen moved on Aragorn, and Boromir stroked himself in time with the waves that splashed against the rocks.

They cried out together, reckless in their passion, but Boromir bit his tongue as he spent himself on a patch of ferns. As he slipped away from the pool, his body still trembling, Boromir heard no music. There was only silence.

Later that night, the Ring sang to Boromir as he tossed in his bed. It did not sing with the sweet, cold voices of children or the liquid tones of a flute. It offered no trumpet calls. Its music was Aragorn's laughter, the moans and cries of his passion. Boromir squeezed his eyes shut, thrust into his fist with the sound of Aragorn pulsing through him. He wanted to hear those sounds from Aragorn's own lips, wanted to be the cause of them. He would give anything to make it so. Anything.

In another room, the Ring gleamed against a hobbit's chest. Desire, it knew, was much like music: its lure was baited for the heart, not the mind. That was why it was so powerful. That was why it was so dangerous.


End file.
